Dread of Vanished Shadows
by jadedlight
Summary: I had a dream which was not all a dream... the dread of vanished shadows. Harry, presumed dead for years, reappears, a shadow of what he once was, with a young daughter in tow. With the help of an old enemy, wounds finally begin to heal. HarryDraco
1. Prologue

Dread of Vanished Shadows

Prologue

_I had a dream, which was not all a dream…  
The dread of vanished shadows._

Lord Byron

For good or bad, the wizarding world would never be the same. The war, which hadn't quite fully escaladed into an actual war, was finally over, ending in a house bathed in blood and baptized by fire.

The Daily Prophet proclaimed in large headlines that there had only been three survivors (although no one could actually identify or confirm said survivors) and that neither He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named nor the boy hero, Harry Potter, were part of that tragically small group.

Although there were vigils held to mourn the passing of The-Boy-Who-Died-For-Them, mostly the wizarding world was in celebration. People filled the streets in Diagon Alley, fireworks exploding high in the sky for hours and hours, confetti made of paper and lights dancing lightly in the air, and music pulsing in and around everyone.

Of course there were some nay-sayers, those who argued that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been vanquished once before only to come back extremely pissed off. But just as soon as those murmurs began to wild fire out of control, a bereaved Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger stepped forward and tearfully told the world about their secret quest destroying hidden pieces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's soul called horocruxes and how, with his body now destroyed, there was no portion of soul left to bind him to this earth.

The details of that fateful night was never released to the public, in fact, the only person who knew even remotely the events that had taken place, leaving the self-stylized Dark Lord and seventeen of his devoted Death Eaters dead, was Severus Snape and he refused both the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix's pleas for clarification. After a rather grueling interview with unnamed Aurors, he even went so far as to growl that they could send him straight to Azkaban before he'd relate the destruction of the Potter boy as fodder for the press. This was not met well by said press nor the wizarding world in general because as everyone knows, the more gruesome and bone-chilling the story, the more captivating it is.

Surprisingly, Severus Snape was never even brought to trial much less sent to Azkaban but that was most likely due to Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger lobbying loudly that he had saved their lives numerous times, spied for the Order at great peril, had personally destroyed one horocrux and supplied information that led them to the last soul remnant they had been searching in vain for.

It wasn't until months and months later did Snape corner Hermione at number twelve Grimmauld Place to whisper the secret she hadn't allowed herself to hope could possibly be true.

He had survived.

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He only remembered bits and pieces really. A few images haunted his dreams and replayed themselves when he allowed his mind to wander but they were only brief and distant. It was the emotions that had coursed through him that night that stayed with him always. The frustration and hurt. The throbbing hatred and ever-increasing rage. The single-minded focus on destroying those who would destroy him. And the final culmination of all, creating an unchecked madness in him. One that whispered of vengeance and blood and murder.

It still whispered to him if he let it.

Harry Potter had never understood those who had committed atrocities, unforgivable sins, and yet felt no remorse or guilt. But now he knew. The seduction into darkness was neither sudden nor gradual. It just was. The ability to be wicked had always tingled through his wand into his fingers, whispered enticingly to him from the shadows, he had just never considered listening.

But now that he had, it was always there, his constant companion. He was no hero. He was a murderer. And he also knew that one day he would kill again.

So he'd turned away from the bodies, the blood, the silver-blonde hair lying at his feet, and the penetrating, horrified, and -- even more appalling – compassionate eyes of his least favorite teacher, and he'd simply walked away.

He'd walked away from the only world in which he'd felt at home in and tried not to look back. He hadn't a plan; he had no concept of whether he'd intended to be gone a week or the rest of eternity. He'd only known that the further he'd gone, that constant state of movement had brought him closer and closer to some rough, desultory semblance of normality.

Months were spent wandering aimlessly, moving through France into Germany to Czech Republic to Austria and into Italy. He had learned fairly quickly that his skills at casting translator charms were lamentable and he'd made his way west over the pond where he could still get lost but speak the language.

She had been so young when he saw her sitting in the park that day, so long ago it sometimes felt like a dream. She had been just a child, really, barely seventeen. But he had been a child too then, and they had both seen their share of pain and thought themselves mature beyond their years.

Emma had been tiny, all soft curves and blonde sweetness, and he'd instantly fallen in love. She'd been running too, never seeming to be able to move fast enough to escape the memory of the past, but never pausing long enough to be consumed by it. It had taken six months and four states before her story had started to reveal itself. Her family was what she had called a Celestial family, one where families were large, children were obedient, girls were married off by age seventeen, and husbands were allotted space in heaven according to how many devoted wives they had. Emma had sometimes talked fondly of her "Aunt" Theresa and "Aunt" Debbie but never ever spoke of her father.

After he had met Emma, the whispers had quieted. He felt a measure of control over himself again but he could still feel something unnamed and terrifying creeping at him from the peripheral shadows. But it wasn't until the first letter from Hermione had reached him (bearing money and the ever-present support) followed swiftly by violent nausea at the reminder of what he'd left behind, that he had finally realized that he was happy in his anonymous running with Emma in a way he had never been and never could be in the wizarding world. With Emma he was allowed to remain along the edge of society, letting the dark mask his horrors and insecurities. In the wizarding world, he was constantly shoved, tricked, and coerced into the unforgiving light of fame that illuminated all he wished to hide.

But he couldn't help thinking years and years later, now that he had the knowledge of what came after, that maybe things would have turned out better if he had made different choices. He supposed, like most that dwelt on past decisions and mistakes, that it made little difference now. Life was a constant stream forward and while you may be able to take small strokes backward, against the current, it was more likely you'd drown than make any headway back the way you came.

The latest letter from Hermione crinkled under his hand, a reminder of the decision that lay before him… before them.

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Hermione had always been the most stubborn sort of friend, endlessly pestering about homework and studies, constantly worrying about Quidditch injuries, and never backing down in an argument when she thought she was right (which, inevitably, was almost always the case).

When she first realized that what Professor Snape was telling her was the absolute truth, that Harry was alive but had left without so much as a word, she instantly fell to penning a letter of love and support to him and she was careful not to even hint that he was under any pressure to respond with anything more than a word just let her know that he was still alive. She also sent a good sized amount of pounds exchanged from his account that he had bequeathed to both her and Ron. They hadn't wanted to touch it, Ron because of his money issues, and her because it still hurt to think about it. When she told Ron about it later that night when he came home, he had smiled fondly at her through his tears of joy and relief and told her that she was always so practical. He wouldn't have thought about Harry needing money.

Her owl came back after three weeks without bearing any messages. She let one month become two without too much worrying. But when three became four, she was downright antsy.

"Why isn't he responding?" she railed at Ron over dinner one night, interrupting a story he was telling her about how Fred and George had unveiled their new 'adult themed' product line that was sending Mrs. Weasley into fits. They both stared at each other silently, uneasily, until Hermione hesitantly voiced the thought they were both trying to avoid. "You don't think something's happened to him…" She trailed off as her voice broke. "Do you?"

Ron was adamant. "No. He's just working everything out. You know how he is, never asking for help, always trying to be the hero and work it out for himself." He said the words solidly, decidedly, but she knew him too well to be fooled. His eyes told her that he was just as terrified as she was.

The next day, she did the only thing she could think of. She wrote another letter. She was going to stubbornly keep writing until he had no choice but to respond. She told herself she was not going to send more money, she was not going to facilitate his running away until he at least let them know he was all right. She sent some anyway.

The cycle repeated itself.

Eight letters and almost eighteen months later, Hermione was in her office at the Ministry arguing semantics with her boss over the latest report she had turned in which she knew he was going to have issue with because the findings were all off, when Ron stuck his head through her fire.

"Sorry to interrupt, but it's an emergency," he said excitedly. Mr. Plaskett, not one to accept being interrupted, looked skeptical and opened his mouth.

She quickly started speaking before he could start asking questions because, really, with the happy way Ron was grinning, it didn't look like too dire of an emergency but anything was better than sitting cooped up arguing with her boss all day over something completely insignificant. "I'll be right there, Ron." Hermione turned to Mr. Plaskett and tried to look apologetic. "Sorry to leave so suddenly like this but you know how these family emergencies can be. I'll floo you tomorrow if I'll be out any more days."

She made it back to number twelve Grimmauld Place in record time, mainly because it was after lunch but before the end of the day so she missed the crush of people that usually occupied the halls and lifts on her way out. When she reached the bottom of the stairs to the kitchen, a letter was shoved in her hand.

Questioningly, she turned the Muggle envelope over and her heart leapt into her throat at the writing. _His_ writing.

Hermione threw her arms around Ron's neck and sobbed.

"I didn't open it," he mumbled into her hair. "I wanted to wait for you."

Smiling in a dazed sort of way, she nodded and slid her finger underneath the envelope's seal. Inside there wasn't a letter at all, but instead a Muggle photo of a small baby with golden brown hair and solemn green eyes. On the back was written three words: _I miss you._

Hermione cried for much of the night.

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Olivia had come as a shock to the young couple, forcing them into marriage before they had planned, but the moment Harry held her in his hands, he felt as close to whole again as he had in a long, long time. It was the happiest day of his life but he didn't have anyone but Emma to share it with. So he sat down to write a letter. He sat there for two hours not knowing what to say after staying silent for so long before fingering through the newly developed photos on the table. Before he knew what he was doing, he turned one over and wrote _I miss you_. He held the pen poised to write more but he realized he was crying and his hand was shaking so he shoved it in an envelope, the kind with the blue pattern inside that makes it so no one can read through to what's inside, and went outside to find the owl he had told to stick around.

The response, a month and a half later, was not the long-winded confession of love and friendship and support in Hermione's careful script he'd come to expect, but in a scrawl so messy with emotion it was hard to make out at first.

_Come home._

He traced Ron's words with the tip of his finger. If only it were that simple.

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He remembered the day when he'd realized that Potter was still alive. He'd almost not truly believed it after so long; he'd been to the funeral—hell, the entire wizarding community had been to the funeral—and he'd watched Granger and the Weasley bunch and the Order for any sign, any brief flicker, any reason at all to hope, but all he saw was pain and anger and deep mourning. It was stifling.

It had seemed wrong at the time that they were burying an empty casket but supposedly after the fire there had been nothing much left of him. If anything at all. Reports were rather sketchy on that. The papers changed their story from one sordid tale to another daily though so it was hard to pin point what was fact and what was speculation. It seemed regarding this, all was speculation though.

So Draco had held out hope even when Potter's friends had obviously not and didn't reflect on why he so desperately believed The-Boy-Who-Was-Bloody-Supposed-To-Live to have survived.

But after the funeral, that hope shrank and faded until it was all but nothing. A little bubble he carried around and petted from time to time but was so fragile that it could burst at any moment.

The years passed by and life went on.

Draco traveled and studied and life was life and the Dark Lord was gone. He had relationships that were meaningless and relationships that were meaningful, and yet, always there, was a small part of him that regretted the fact that he had survived to have these experiences while Potter had not, though most of the time he was hard-pressed to name the swirl of emotions as more than regret for life.

Eventually, he found himself with a nice cushy job at Hogwarts (no doubt thanks to Severus since Headmistress McGonagall never really did like him, even after everything he had done for their sodding Order) in a position he immensely enjoyed though that wasn't something he'd readily admit to. He even found that _sometimes_ he could put up with the Granger chit who was also on staff. When the need be, of course.

Which was how he came to find himself in her rooms soon after he began working at Hogwarts. She had mentioned something about a book she had just read and how it might help with his class outlines and so he'd been polite (they were at dinner in the Great Hall after all) and said he'd be grateful for the loan.

"It's somewhere on the shelves." She gestured vaguely around her sitting room, every wall covered in books. "Just give me a moment to go put these down."

While she was in the back room, he began to look around. There wasn't much _to_ look at excepting books; she obviously didn't feel the need to display meaningless knick-knacks and collectibles, which only served to highlight those few photos that _were_ there. There was an old photo of her and Weasley and Potter taken sometime during their later years at Hogwarts that Draco couldn't help but pick up. They were simply sitting in the Gryffindor common room studying but there was an intimacy there between them that made Draco put it down just as quickly and look to another wall.

That's when he saw them. The photos. His eye was instantly drawn to them, most likely because all but two were unmoving. Awkward slices of life captured in mid-motion, never to follow through. It made him uncomfortable, yet he moved closer.

They all seemed to be of the same dark haired child. A step-by-step progression of life from infancy through early childhood illustrating the messy yet happy existence of a content and loved child.

"Find it?" Granger asked as she breezed back into the room.

"No," he replied distractedly, and he was rather proud of the fact that no insults accompanied it.

She shook her head setting her hair all aquiver. "Honestly, ever hear of Accio?"

Draco ignored her—easy enough to do—and picked up one of the wizarding photos of the girl. She was older, maybe seven or so, and stirring something in an oversized bowl with a long wooden spoon, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Who's this then?" he questioned, and then started when Granger swooped in and took it from him, replacing it back on its shelf.

Her hands wrung in front of her for a moment and then they were still. "No one. Just my cousin's child. Look, here's the book." She shoved it towards him. "Let me know if it helps as a supplemental for your text. I have the next volume as well."

He knew a dismissal when it was thrust at him so he nodded and left, trying hard not to look to the photos again so he wouldn't draw her suspicions.

Because just before she had taken it away from him, the little girl had looked up and Draco _knew_ those eyes.

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They were living in rural Germany now, not too far from Saarbrücken but far enough away from the border that it was still innately Germany not that weird mixture of cultures that occupies border towns, and had been there for going on a year now. It was the longest he and Olivia had ever stayed in one place and it was getting harder and harder to pick up the pieces of their lives and move on now.

When Emma was still alive and they moved into a new home, a new state, a new life, they always acted as though it were permanent. He had come to think of it not as running _away_ but running _to_. It was a new place to try and heal their battered bruises, ward off the punishing shadows. It was supposed to be a fresh start. The last fresh start. A place to put down roots. To let Olivia have friends and just be a kid. It was never supposed to be one of many fresh starts. Or a false start as they all inevitably became.

But now, now he was older and tired and not as scared of the whispers catching up to him.

"I can't go back," he said aloud, suddenly realizing that he was only saying that because, up until recently, it was what he had always said. Except there was no longer any conviction in his words, they sounded hollow and empty, even to him.

He gripped the latest of the yearly letters from Hermione tighter in his hand before shoving away from the kitchen counter and heading down the hall to Olivia's room. She was seated cross-legged on her bed rereading an old copy of Quidditch Throughout the Ages that he had picked up in a wizarding town in Ontario a few years back. He had originally bought it for himself, purely for nostalgia's sake, but Olivia was enthralled with the idea of Quidditch and had to have read it cover to cover as many times as Harry had by now.

He leaned against the doorpost and waited for her to acknowledge him. After a moment, she bookmarked the page and looked up at him consideringly. "Are we moving again?" she asked after a beat of observing him, neither sad nor happy at the thought. Simply accepting. It was, after all, the only way of life she knew and it killed him that he did this to her.

"No. Well, maybe. I don't know. I was just thinking about you going to school." He watched as she drew in on herself, sinking into the pillows, becoming unobtrusive.

"I don't have to," she began but he waved a hand to stop her and sat down in front of her. It was the same thing she had said yesterday. And the day before. She had been trying to convince him for going on a year now that he could teach her everything she needed to know about magic himself. He knew that she was so adamant because she didn't want to leave him, didn't want to _abandon_ him, while she went off to a traditional magical school. But he also knew that she desperately wanted to go. The invitation to attend Beauxbatons was pinned above her desk, reread more times than the Quidditch book in her hands. He didn't want to take that away from her much as he wished he could keep her with him always.

Harry brought his hand up to his face and rubbed some of the weariness away. "I've gotten a letter," he told her through his hand. "I've been offered a job at Hogwarts." He looked at the letter crumpled in his hand and then passed it over to her for her to read.

She went through it quickly and then went back to the beginning and read it again looking much older than her ten years. "They think you're dead?"

He had been confused by this as well but he supposed it was the reason why he had never been found even after all his moving around. Wizards had their ways, he knew. If they had wanted to find him, he doubted he could have remained hidden for so long.

"Apparently." A number of months before, he had sat down with Olivia and told her about his childhood, his school years, his friends, and… his enemies. He tried to be as forthcoming as possible, recognizing that she was about the same age as he was when he first came into the wizarding world and subsequently into contact with Voldemort. After baring his soul to her, she sat there staring at him for a good long time before asking for more stories of his adventures with Hermione and Ron. It soon became a nightly thing. He would tell her a story every night, sometimes about the Marauders, sometimes about Quidditch, sometimes about the Weasleys, and sometimes about Hogwarts. It didn't seem to matter what it was about, Olivia was enthralled.

Sighing, he pulled her to him, turning so that he sat cushioned against her pillows with her small frame tucked neatly against him. "How would you feel about going to Hogwarts instead? Hermione said even though you weren't on the list of students to get a letter you still could go. It would be nice to be able to go to school _with_ you." Her small face lit up and he smiled indulgently. He knew that would get to her.

In fact, the whole idea of it solved so many of the dilemmas that had been plaguing him lately that he found himself actually embracing the idea of going back. Of finally halting the constant movement of their lives. Of seeing his friends again. Of not pretending. Of going _home_.

He sat there, holding his little girl, staring at the posters of unicorns and fairies that they put up together in each new bedroom she moved into, both knowing but not verbalizing the fact that she had outgrown them but her mom had bought them when she had been a baby and they had always been there, looking down on her from the walls. It was sitting there, in that moment, that he realized that it was time. It was time to face himself and who he had become on that day so long ago it felt like a dream. The day he stared Voldemort in the face and refused to back down until he'd won. The day he watched the life fade from the snake-like man's eyes. The day everything changed.

All his fears were still present – Would Ron and Hermione understand? Could he survive the spotlight of fame again? Would he be accepted? – but for once he actually wanted to find out the answers. And he knew even if all of his deepest fears came true, he and Olivia would still survive. They would endure.

Olivia tilted her head up and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "Are we really going?" Excitement and wariness warred in her eyes.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and wished, not for the first time, that Emma had lived to see their daughter grow into the hesitant yet intelligent preteen she had become. "Yes, my little turnip, I believe we really are."

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Reviews appreciated. Criticisms considered. Flames ignored.


	2. Chapter 1

Dread of Vanished Shadows

Chapter 1

_I had a dream, which was not all a dream…_

_The dread of vanished shadows._

Lord Byron

Summers at Hogwarts were surprisingly not one of Hermione's favorite times of year like some of the other teachers. She actually preferred the castle when it was full of clamoring and boisterous students, classes and schedules, essays and Quidditch. When it was quiet in the summers Hermione suddenly had time to think and it was during those times that she began to miss Harry and sometimes even Ron, despite all that had occurred, and the friendship they had shared. She wasn't someone to let others get too close and it hurt that the two she had let get the closest had ended up betraying her in their own ways.

And there she was, thinking about it again. She would get nothing done if she kept dwelling on what could have been.

Looking about for a distraction and finding none in her rooms, she left and headed down the stairs, nodding occasionally at the bored portraits who greeted her. When she reached the bottom, she turned to head outside but instead ran full force into Yorick Jinks, the aged gamekeeper who had taken over Hagrid's empty position all those years ago, not quite able to fill Hagrid's big shoes but more than willing to try.

"Oh, Miss Hermione!" he greeted her in his quiet, polite way. "Was just coming up to see you."

Surprised, Hermione didn't even correct him as she usually did when he called her Miss Hermione as he insisted instead of simply Hermione.

"To see me?" she repeated. It wasn't that she didn't get along with Yorick; it was just that he tended to be on the shy side and rarely made the effort to come inside for meals or to socialize, preferring his solitude in his cabin. She knew he was a widower for many years now and missed his wife immensely.

He held up a letter in an old, wrinkled hand. "You've been getting a letter, see? Owl was a bit mixed in the head, I think. Circled the grounds all day. Only coaxed it down a few minutes ago and it had this letter here." He handed it over with a crinkled smile. "It's brown and black and a bit on the small side. Will you be needing it to stay?"

It took Hermione a moment to realize he was referring to the owl and not the letter. "Oh, no, that's all right. Thank you, Yorick." She watched him make his way outside before she looked down to the letter expecting it to be from Ginny, the latest in her pleas to get Hermione to come visit the family at the Burrow at the end of the summer party they always had. But one look at the handwriting scrawled across the envelope had her heart speeding up and left her feeling lightheaded.

Harry.

She turned the letter over in her hand, feeling the weight of it, trying to breathe. In the last ten years they had established a routine. Each year, in June, she would receive an envelope from him in response to the one letter she restricted herself to write for that year and Hermione would instantly head down to the Three Broomsticks so that she and Ron could open it together. Even after all that had happened between the two of them, they still came together that one day in the year as they always had to share the newest photo Harry had sent. Sometimes on the back of the photo there would be a scrawled date, or a place, and once the name Olivia, but nothing more, nothing all that substantial.

It wasn't enough, would never be enough for them, but it was their only link to Harry and so they cherished those photos.

But they had just seen each other three weeks ago. They had sat awkwardly together in a corner booth, each nursing their drinks and avoiding eye contact, and opened that year's envelope to compare the latest photo of Harry's beautiful daughter to their memory of Harry himself. They had just gone through that so why would she be receiving this now?

Maybe something had happened. Tears formed in her eyes as she thought of the girl who looked so much like her Harry and she blinked them back as she fervently hoped nothing had happened to her.

Hermione knew she should contact Ron, that they should do this together, but if this were an emergency…. Without hesitating, she ripped open the letter right there at the bottom of the stairs.

_My dear Hermione, _

_I can't and won't ask for forgiveness for past decisions and mistakes because while I do regret slipping away like I did, it was needed. I did what I had to do to survive and, drastic or not, I cannot repent what choices led me to having Olivia. Please understand._

_But I have also come to realize that the world has changed. That I have changed. And I think I'm ready now to come back. If the DADA position is still available, I would be willing to accept it (although I'm sure there are many more who would be more qualified for the position but I can't possibly be as bad as Quirrell, Lockhart, or even Umbridge were). Let me know as soon as you can as there are certain decisions to be made regarding Olivia's schooling either way._

_I miss both you and Ron even now and relive our exploits daily in the form of engaging stories told to my adventure obsessed daughter. Although I know things will never be quite the same, I do hope we can become close as we once were._

_You have been with me always throughout these many years. _

_I love you,_

_Harry_

"Oh, buggering hell," she murmured softly before taking the stairs up two at a time, almost landing directly in the trick stair much to her embarrassment, as she made her way swiftly to the Headmistress' office. The gargoyle admitted her entrance after she took a moment to catch her breath and Hermione climbed the revolving staircase suddenly finding it moved much too slowly.

"Hermione?" Minerva sounded concerned when she came gasping into the inner office. "Has something happened? Are you all right?" 

Hermione waved her concern away and collapsed into one of the comfy, cushy armchairs left over from Dumbledore's era. "Fine. Fine. Have you convinced Kingsley to come teach yet?"

Minerva paused, bemused, but took it stride as she conjured an elegant tea setting that began to pour itself. "Well, not officially, no. But he'll do it irregardless especially since he knows it's only for a year." She smiled wryly, no doubt thinking of all the people who had tried and failed to break the curse on the DADA position.

"I might have found someone else." Now that she could breathe normally again, Hermione cursed herself for offering a job that she had no business offering. To a dead man no less.

Raising an eyebrow, the headmistress folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. "Someone _you_ feel is qualified? My, this is a surprise. Usually you're up in arms about my choices. I'm on the edge of my seat, now. Who is this mysteriously qualified but never brought up before person?"

Hermione took a deep breath and just said it. "Harry Potter."

The woman in front of her, the woman who never seemed to age in terms of vitality or energy, simply deflated before her. "My dear," she began in a voice so weary and sad that Hermione found herself realizing just how much she and Ron had hurt everyone in concealing the truth.

"I know what you're going to say, just let me finish. I'm not mad. He never died all those years ago, at least not completely. I think in doing what he did, a small part of him did die and he couldn't deal with everything and he ran. He's barely kept in contact throughout all this time but something made me offer him the job when I wrote him a few months ago." She held up the letter with tears in her eyes. "He wants to come home."

Unsurprisingly, Minerva took the news rather stoically compared to what the reaction of others would be, the only physical response to the news being the tears streaming down her face. "He's been alive all this time," she said, marveling.

Hermione nodded and they shared a small smile.

Harry was coming home.

After speaking with the Headmistress, Hermione realized just how little she knew about Harry's situation.

Had he lived as a Muggle all these years and would come back rusty from disuse? It was hard to imagine anyone being able to simply stop using magic. After seven years of schooling, the habits became well ingrained; a person became almost reliant on that release of casual magic. There were old tales told about people going mad after years of denying their magic an outlet. But before she could worry too much about where that train of thought was leading, she remembered that she had four wizarding photos in her rooms proving that, at least during the last few years, he had had some sort of contact with the wizarding world.

So maybe he wouldn't show up out of practice, but could he even teach? Sure, as children they had organized their own supplemental DADA course, the Defense Association, and Harry had been patient and supportive and, if she remembered clearly and was not simply romanticizing the heroic boy image of him that she had carefully nurtured all these years, a very good teacher. But who knew what sort of life events molded the person he was today. If anything, she had learned that sometimes someone who had once been a despised enemy could become a trusted colleague just as how someone who had been a childhood friend turned husband could become a man who broke vows, her heart, and then the good china.

But that sort of thinking led her to bad places so she swiftly focused on Harry again.

She didn't even know if Harry had a family besides his little Olivia. Would he bring along a wife, another two children, and a dog named Snuffles? She wasn't altogether sure if there were any residences currently available in Hogsmeade at the moment. She made a mental note to visit Dougal who lived with his young family in a tiny house in Hogsmeade when not teaching Muggle Studies, to see if he knew of any available places just in case.

And Harry still needed to create a course outline for each year and at least start on the first month's lecture notes and approve the text that Ennis Merrick had used the previous year or choose his own. Slipping into her rooms, she glanced at the calendar. And he had to do it all in the next four weeks before term started.

She had better get to writing.

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Harry was exhausted. He didn't think he'd read so much in his entire life as he had in the past week. He hadn't even picked up his camera for eight days, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Olivia.

But the owl bearing his course outlines, the whole first term's lecture notes and assignments, and his request for another book to be exchanged for the upper years was finally off and away to Headmistress McGonagall, only a speck above the trees on the horizon now.

He hadn't made dinner yet, didn't even know if there was any food in the fridge, and he was again struck by the thought that he was ruining his daughter's life. She would be much better off in a stable home, a stable family, instead of with him, always cooped up, always alone. But she was going away to school now – _they_ were going away to school now – and there would be steady meals, washing done regularly, children her own age, classes, parties, friends. Just the thought of it made him relax just a bit.

Entering the tiny kitchen, he watched her make peanut butter and honey sandwiches with the last of their bread, her movements careful, controlled, almost unnatural in a child of her age. Her wrists were so small he sometimes feared she would shatter at the slightest nudge. But Olivia had always been a wraith, narrow and bony; a chest like a fledgling, her brilliantly green eyes taking up half her face. Emma had been small but had none of the hardness he saw in his daughter. She was more like him in that sense. He had been so underdeveloped as a child that it was easy to put it down to neglect and tight spaces, but maybe all this time he'd been wrong. Maybe he would have been small no matter what. He hadn't really filled in and out until his late twenties, his metabolism burning so fast and strong before that he had always been skin and bones.

"I see you've packed my clothes for me," he said as they sat eating their one and a half sandwiches each. "You did, by chance, leave me some to wear didn't you?"

Giving him a look that showed his attempt at humor was not appreciated, she swallowed. "I thought we were going to shrink everything and send it by owl."

"We can just bring it with us." He paused to take a drink. "Tomorrow."

Olivia instantly perked up. "Tomorrow? We're leaving tomorrow?"

Harry hid a grin. "If you wanted to, that is. I just figured we could get there early and I could show you around the castle, take you to Diagon Alley for your school supplies, find a wand for you, maybe look at some familiars while we were there. But if you want to stay here for a bit longer, I'm sure –"

"No! Tomorrow's good." She smiled across the table at him and his heart leapt in his chest and he fought the tears that began to well to the surface. Her smile came so seldom lately that it was like bright sunshine flashing on winter snow, blinding and strange. "How long will it take to get there?"

Clearing his throat, he quickly amended his previous plan in order to make it in one day. "Well, I thought we could take an express to Paris and then through the Chunnel to London. From there I can apparate us directly into Hogsmeade. We should be at the castle around dinner time tomorrow."

He pushed his chair back as she rounded the table and climbed onto his lap, curling happily against his chest.

"Thank you, daddy," she whispered.

All his doubts and fears melted away.

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They appeared in Hogsmeade just as the harsh afternoon light was beginning to soften into the warm glow of evening that made his fingers itch to pull out his camera. Olivia, who spent her life on the sidelines, always watching, never participating, looked around in wonder although Harry personally thought Hogsmeade looked no different from any other small town they'd been in across Europe. Well, except for the robes and the little boy on his training broom. But other than that, there really wasn't much to signify that this was a magical community.

But he still felt that creeping feeling of paranoia work it's way up his back and he pulled his hat down a bit lower even though he knew there would only be a few who would recognize him now.

"Come on," he murmured, and he grabbed Olivia's arm to guide her to the path leading to the school. The town had grown just a bit, but it was enough to confuse him for a few minutes before he felt the telltale signs of the wards as they passed through. "It's just up this trail."

When the trees broke and the castle came into view he heard Olivia gasp and the urge to go for his camera won out as he watched his daughter take in the view. Taking off his hat, he let himself become immersed in the familiar and comforting act of framing, focusing, and shooting and he had even exchanged his lens for a wide-angled one before he realized how much time had passed. Olivia was impatiently fiddling with his camera bag but knowing not to interrupt nor leave his side.

"Sorry munchkin, got a little carried away there."

She shrugged and handed him the lens cap and they made their way up the path to the castle proper. When they reached the high front doors, he felt her pull in a little closer to him and he switched the bag strap so that the bag lay against his left side instead and grabbed her hand.

"You ready?" he questioned.

She nodded, looking timid but resolute, trying to be the brave Gryffindor she always wanted to be. Ignoring his own warring emotions, he pushed the door open and led her into the Entrance Hall, their footsteps echoing on the flagstones.

He suddenly realized that he had never been there when it was so quiet, so empty. Even during Christmas hols there had been almost a complete full staff and a handful of students from each house. He had no idea if the professors were even in residence yet and suddenly wished he'd given a definitive date for their arrival. He was sure he could make it to the Headmistress' office but he had no clue what to do without a password. Dumbledore had always just seemed to know when someone needed to get in and, while that could be a handy feature that came with the office, Harry suspected it had more to do with the man himself.

But before they had taken even three steps he came face to face with Snape, a man he had fervently hoped to avoid indefinitely. It figured he'd be still working here.

"Well, Potter, you look much less bruised and bloodied than the last time I saw you. No one try to kill you lately?" Harry watched the man's eyes flick over Olivia and he tightened his grip on her hand.

"Snape," he greeted as casually as he could, trying not to show the tension that coursed through his body. Olivia pressed in close to him, no doubt remembering stories told long before that featured a villainous professor named Snape. He really should begin telling later stories that extolled the man's – albeit limited – virtues so that she wouldn't be completely terrified of him in class.

The older man looked down on him disdainfully. "And so the incompetency in choosing a Defense professor continues. It's a wonder these students survive three days outside of school."

"And how many students did you deem competent enough to advance into upper potions this year? Three? Four? It's surprising that the wizarding world at large can even brew a simple headache potion after they leave these walls." Olivia shifted nervously at his side, not used to hearing her father speak in such a sardonic tone of voice and not knowing what it meant. Her movements only served to draw Snape's attention back to her. Her body was pressed tightly against his side now, her hand gripping tightly at the pocket of his worn and faded jeans.

"I see you've spawned. Doesn't look like such a brave little Gryffindor to me. Maybe Hufflepuff –" Snape cut off as Harry barked out a laugh.

"Merlin, I could only wish. Maybe then she wouldn't get into half as much trouble as I seemed to find myself in."

He could almost swear that he saw the corner of Snape's mouth turn up a fraction of an inch but Hermione chose that moment to come dashing down the stairs at him.

"Harry!" she cried out breathlessly and she flung her arms around his neck, pulling him tightly in for a hug. "Oh, Harry! I missed you so much." She was crying now, sobbing really, and he tried to dredge up the same amount of emotion but only felt exhaustion from the latest upheaval of his life.

Hermione didn't look much different from what he remembered. She was still on the short side, but with more curves than he remembered her having, and her hair had remained a tad towards unruly but she wore it pulled back leaving her exposed, revealing her wide, warm smile and expressive eyes cataloguing no doubt the roughness of his appearance: dark circles under eyes that held a harder glint to them than they used to, stubble a few days old, hair left uncut too long (or not long enough as it forever seemed to be in that awkward in between phase), and the jaded sharpness to his smile he still hadn't been able to soften.

The more she looked, the more her grin faded and a worried expression took over her face.

To ease her discomfort, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on hers, catching the surprise in her eyes. "I missed you too, Hermione." His voice was barely a whisper. Harry heard a snort from over his shoulder and then Snape's footsteps as he walked away.

"Well," Hermione said, pulling back, clearing her throat, and turning her attention to Olivia. "You must be Olivia. I'm Hermione Granger and I knew your dad when he was your age just starting school here himself. I teach Charms and am also Head of Gryffindor house."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle when Olivia's face lit up at this. "Ah, now you've won her over for good. She's very determined, this one is, to convince the Sorting Hat to put her in Gryffindor. Wants to be just like her dad." He rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh at the skeptical look this garnered from Hermione.

"She does know that you almost died a few times, right?"

He shrugged a 'what can I do?' sort of shrug and opened his mouth to tease Olivia, to try to put her a little more at ease, when a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned and looked up the staircase leading to the first floor and swore he saw a small, dark haired boy no more than six years old turn the corner.

Hermione's hand touched his arm. "Are you alright?"

Shaking off the weird feeling that had suddenly come over him, he turned back. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thought I saw a small child up there. Wasn't expecting it."

"Oh, it's probably one of Dougal's boys. You'll probably remember Dougal Cadwallader. He was on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team during our later years here. Large, 'takes up the entire room' kind of guy? Well, anyway, he teaches Muggle Studies and his family lives just over in Hogsmeade so the kids come up sometimes on the weekends and such to visit." She paused and looked around. "Is it… is it just the two of you?"

Harry nodded tightly and put his hand on Olivia's shoulder even though she hadn't even reacted to the question. Sometimes he wondered if she remembered all that much about her mother besides the photos she kept hidden under her bed.

"Well, you must be starved, traveling today and all. Luckily, you came just in time for dinner. Now," Hermione looked down at Olivia. "The Great Hall doesn't look nearly as impressive as it will for the Welcoming Feast but I think you'll like it anyway despite the lack of decorations."

And with that, she led them through the doors to the Great Hall where a small, lonely rectangular table sat in the middle of the vast hall. At the table, there were quite a few people eating and chatting. Harry noticed Snape eating off to the side, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. By the time they reached the table, everyone was completely silent and trying not to look as though they were staring.

"Everyone, this is Harry Potter, our new Defense teacher, and his daughter Olivia who will be a first year. Harry, you know Severus."

Harry struggled to keep his face straight at the grimace on Snape's face as Hermione said his name. He nodded politely.

"And Pomona Sprout."

The motherly lady, with more grey in her hair than he remembered, jumped up and embraced him and then Olivia much to the little girl's surprise.

"And this is Matilda Malloye. She teaches Care of Magical Creatures."

Harry reached over and shook the matronly woman's hand. She was still young, maybe around 45, and he could already tell that she was one of those women who were perpetually happy.

"Call me Tilly," she giggled and waved to Olivia.

"And, of course, you remember Minerva."

Reaching out his hand again, Harry was shocked when McGonagall slapped the proffered hand away and pulled him into a tight hug.

"I missed you, my boy," she undertoned into his ear before letting go.

He squeezed her hand and smiled a little guiltily.

"This is Heike Ivers, who teaches Ancient Runes, and her son, Hamilton, who is a seventh year Gryffindor and Quidditch Captain this year." Hermione's house pride was evident in her tone of voice.

He shook hands with them both, noticing the way Olivia's eyes rounded as Hamilton grinned at her and he wondered if it was due to his being an older, good looking boy or Quidditch Captain. He fervently hoped it was the latter. He wasn't quite ready to deal with boys yet.

"And I'm sure you remember Poppy as well, seeing as how you spent a good majority of your time in the Hospital Wing."

Ducking his head to hide the red that inexplicably shaded his face, he grinned and shook her hand as well.

Hermione gestured for them to take their seats. "Most of the staff are still away on holiday or with their families. In about a week they should all begin trickling back in."

Dinner was a rather boisterous affair, not nearly what he remembered the staff table to be like when he was a student. He wondered if that was simply due to his childhood perception or if the professors behaved more when the students were around. Either way, he actually found himself laughing along at some of the more outrageous stories.

The group had directed a few general questions towards him and Olivia in the beginning but, after a number of one-word answers, took the hint and discussed other things. Harry knew that eventually he was going to have to address the topic of his disappearance but he was grateful for the reprieve all the same.

After eating, Hermione led them up to the second floor and to a painting of a dark cave that, at first glance, appeared to contain a couple of writhing snakes. Upon further examination, Harry realized that it was a runespoor, a three headed snake, and was reminded rather nostalgically of Fluffy before his senses came to him and he remembered that it had almost killed him and he actually hated the damn dog.

"You can set whatever password you'd like by talking to the right head – right as in direction – and I would avoid trying to talk to the one on the left. Or the one in the middle, actually, unless you want to be talked in circles. I guess that's the reason why he guards these rooms. It's very unlikely students will want to try to get past this guy. Talking to him can be pretty tedious."

Olivia looked thoughtful. "Can it be in parseltongue?" she asked curiously.

Harry snorted. "Well, I guess that's one way to ensure nobody but you or I can get in." Catching Hermione's look, he shrugged. "Runs in the family."

"Huh. Well, I'm down one floor in the empty corridor behind the painting of three old men drinking. If you need anything just ask one of them to get me. Or you can use the floo." She hesitated. "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Just exploring the castle."

"Well, I told Ron you were coming back and he'd really like to see you. You can find him at the Three Broomsticks whenever you're ready to see him." She looked suddenly shifty, her hands wringing in front of her.

"You're not going to come too?"

"No, no. I'll let you boys catch up alone. It's fine. He runs the place now, for Rosmerta, so he's there all the time. Even lives above it."

There was something going on between the two of them, something Hermione was trying to avoid talking about but he let her off the hook knowing it was only a matter of time. Well, that and for future use when she became too nosy about his personal life. That way, he could turn it around on her.

"Sure. Figures he'd get a job where he's surrounded by alcohol all the time."

Hermione cracked a weak smile and bid them goodnight.

"So, turnip, what shall our password be?" he inquired, leaning closer to the painting to try to figure out which snake head was the one on the right.

"How about 'home?'"

"Perfect, sweetheart, just perfect."

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He and Olivia spent almost the entirety of the next two days exploring the castle as well as the grounds. After getting lost twice and running into McGonagall – Minerva, he corrected himself, something he had to do quite frequently – the second time, the Headmistress gave him a map that showed him not only the different corridors but also where each professor's office and rooms were, something he had never really paid attention to while he was a student. Of course, it only showed job titles and not each professor's name so he still had to remember who was teaching what, something he hoped would stump him for the first week only.

After still getting turned around while following the map, Harry was reminded of the Marauder's Map and wondered what had happened to it. He made a mental note to speak to Hermione about it when he saw her next. There was no way in the entire wizarding world he was going to turn it over to Olivia but he would like to show her it and it might come in handy as a teacher besides.

It had been fun seeing the castle through Olivia's eyes and showing her where each of her favorite stories had occurred. In an attempt to keep her mind open to all possibilities, they were even able to sneak into all the house common rooms to compare and contrast. Of course in the process, he ended up being supremely jealous of the Hufflepuffs and wondered why he had never heard about them having a virtual garden paradise, complete with a waterfall, adjacent to their common room.

A few years before, Olivia had so smoothly manipulated him into moving back overseas by playing on his paranoia that he hadn't comprehended it was her doing until a month after the move. Once he realized what she had done, he started teasing her that she was the perfect little Slytherin, knowing what she wanted and doing everything she could to get it, no holds barred. Standing in the Slytherin common room, cool and slightly damp now that they were away from the humid summer air upstairs, he was reminded of that and thought again that she would do well down there. Well, as long as the other students didn't eat her alive for being a Potter, but he had hope that the kids here these days would have enough of their own prejudices than to borrow some from the previous generation as well.

"Would it be so bad to be sorted into Slytherin? You know you look good in green," teased Harry. "Besides, you are the most determined girl I've ever met -- take after your dad like that – and I'd hate to see what sort of mishaps you'd get into with that willful determination of yours mixed with friends who can't seem to help but think every idea is worth jumping into head first and with a big grin."

"But you were in Gryffindor. And your parents were in Gryffindor too."

"Your grandparents," he corrected gently knowing it was difficult to put a familiar sort of term like 'grandparents' on people she had never met nor even seen photos of. He again thought to ask Hermione just where all his things had gone to.

"And you told me that even before them, the Potters all tended to be sorted into Gryffindor. I don't want to be different." She was perched on the arm of one of the chairs next to the cold fire, fidgeting with her ponytail.

He sighed. "But that's just it. They _tended_ to be in Gryffindor; it didn't always happen. And I will still love you just the same no matter which house you were sorted into. Although, if you end up in Hufflepuff I think I may love you even more than I already do. Less to worry about really."

Olivia pulled a face and hopped down. "Whatever. Can we go to the owlery now? Will there be lots of owls there right now? Can I pet one?"

Harry chuckled and handed her the map. "Lead the way, oh pretty one. The school owls should pretty much all be there right now so there will be a few to pet if you want." His daughter had always been fascinated by animals, most likely due to the fact that they had never really had a pet before.

They made their way upwards, Olivia navigating them through the serpentine passages in the dungeon with much more ease than Harry ever could. When they reached the ground floor, Harry heard his name being called from the corridor across the hall.

"Harry!" A pretty woman with waist-length brown hair and deep brown eyes, wearing a loose summer dress, came darting over to them. He had a niggling sensation that he should recognize her but that could also be from the familiar way she was calling him. "If I hadn't known you were wandering around here today, I wouldn't have recognized you!" she laughed as she smiled brilliantly at Olivia. "And you probably have no idea who I am! Suzanna Fawcett," she held out a hand and he was surprised when she gave him a firm but enthusiastic handshake. "I was a year ahead of you in Ravenclaw. I took over teaching Arithmancy five years ago now and this'll be my second year as Head of Ravenclaw."

"Nice to meet you," Harry murmured politely. "This is my daughter, Olivia." He waited as she shook Olivia's hand as well and he rested his palm comfortingly on his daughter's shoulder knowing how uncomfortable she was at meeting new people. He could literally see her draw in on herself as she had done the past two nights at dinner.

"I just wanted to let you know that Hermione is looking for you. She asked me to catch you if I saw you and to send you her way. She should be up in her office now. Ron was here earlier so it probably has to do with him. She's in something of a strop so I gather they had another fight." She rolled her eyes. "It was nice meeting you again." And with that, she disappeared back down the corridor where, Harry saw on the map, a few empty classrooms and Pomona Sprout's residence were.

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He waited until it got dark before pulling on a snug, dark cap and making his way down the trail to Hogsmeade. As he approached the Three Broomsticks, he could hear the murmur of voices and laughter floating out the open windows and doors and into the warm evening air from a street away. Being a Wednesday, Harry had hoped it would prove to be a quiet night. The longer he could avoid the public (rapidly followed by rabid reporters, no doubt) the better, in his opinion.

Inside, it was surprisingly cool. Most of the tables were occupied; a few families still lingered, appreciating the last days of summer, and there looked to be quite a gathering of twenty-somethings crowding the bar. He ducked his head and kept to the wall as he circled the bar, spotting vividly red hair peeking out over the crowd.

Finally finding a spot around the side, he leaned casually against the wall and observed his old friend while waiting for a lull. Ron was a large man, tall with broad shoulders, huge hands, and an enormous smile. There was none of the fumbling clumsiness that had plagued him as a teen. Every move was confident, almost to the point of arrogance, as he twirled bottles, passed out pints, listened to orders, and flirted with the ladies all effortlessly and all at the same time.

Watching Ron surprisingly affected him more than seeing Hermione had. Seeing this man before him, knowing it was Ron but not recognizing the boy he once knew in him, made him realize just how much he had missed in his friend's life. It was an empty feeling, hallowed from guilt, and it left him eyeing the door, wanting an escape.

Instead he moved his eyes back to the bar just in time to make eye contact with Ron's very shocked gaze. They stared at each other for a brief moment before Harry raised a cautious hand in greeting. The spell broken, Ron laughed, shaking his head, and bellowed through the doorway behind him, leading to the back.

"Nessa! I need you to cover the bar for a bit!"

A girl, no older than sixteen, wearing light-weight, deep maroon robes, came out and waved Ron away. "Och. I don't need your help. Go do your business."

After ruffling her curly, dark brown hair affectionately, Ron vaulted over the bar and crossed to Harry in three bounds, practically lifting him off his feet as he embraced him.

"Took you long enough," laughed Ron and he nodded his head towards the bar. Harry wondered if he meant it took him long enough to come back or just to make it over to the Broomsticks since he had arrived. It was probably both. "What say we nip over to the kitchen, steal some food and then make our way upstairs. You've got that paranoid, slightly terrified look in your eye that you used to get when Romilda Vane was in the room."

Harry couldn't help but crack a smile and he scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. "You know, I had repressed all those memories until you just reminded me. Thanks for that."

Clapping him on the back, Ron let out an open, loud bark of laughter. "Yeah, well, you just wait until she finds out that you're here. She sometimes comes in for drinks with her friends. I bet you anything that she starts dropping by weekly, the skanky slag."

Harry followed Ron through the crowd around to the back of the bar, sidling past the remarkably competent Nessa and into the cramped kitchen beyond where two dark haired boys who bore a remarkable resemblance to the teen out front were arguing over a happily smoking stove.

"I _told_ you not to use your wand to season anymore, you stubborn sod! You know the rules. Besides, if you can't even spell a bluebell flame without setting the furniture on fire, then what makes you think you can properly season the pork pies?" one grumbled to the other.

"Is there a problem, boys?" questioned Ron, imposingly. Both of them straightened up hastily, their faces flushed fetchingly from heat and guilt.

The taller of the two tugged his apron strings tighter as he inched to his left, not-so-subtly blocking their view of the apparently offending food, which, hungry as he was, looked remarkably good to Harry, over-spiced or not.

"No problems, Ron. None at all. Korbin was just arguing with me over who was going to take the next order out, that's all." The shorter teen grinned conspiratorially. "You know how he is."

The red head raised an eyebrow and Korbin threw a few of the completed plates onto a tray and darted to the door, the tray hovering obediently after him. Once he was gone, Ron summoned a plate the boy had been attempting to hide over to him. "Conner, I know you're seventeen now and you both want to use spells for everything because you finally can but I cannot have it here. At home you two can set as much furniture on fire as you want but even having Rosmerta as an aunt will not save you from my wrath if anything should go wrong here. No spells in the kitchen."

Conner nodded guiltily and flinched as Ron took a bite of the warm pork pie. Harry personally thought his speech was rather hypocritical as he remembered Ron's own seventeenth birthday and the excessive amount of spells he cast afterwards to do everything from brushing his teeth to pouring milk in his tea.

"Now, how many orders still need to go out?" Ron asked as he dumped the plate into the rubbish bin.

Glancing at a collection of hovering pieces of paper huddled together almost nervously, as far from the fire of the stove as possible, Conner snatched all but one out of the air. "Just this last one," he replied.

"Good. Well, hop to and then you can close the kitchen and help Nessa out front. And remember to watch Korbin. Cleaning spells only."

As Conner pulled together the last order, Ron quickly tossed an assortment of foods onto a tray and bewitched a case of butterbeer to follow them up the stairs at the back of the kitchen.

"They're good kids, all three of them, but sometimes they drive me mad," Ron was saying as he led him up another two sets of stairs. "Nessa and Conner are the children of Rosmerta's sister, Isobel, and Korbin is her brother, Padraig's kid. The two boys are going to be Gryffindor seventh years and Nessa is going into her sixth year as a Hufflepuff. During the summer, they come and help out around here almost every day and when school starts up again, they'll usually work here on a weekend or two."

Ron's rooms were comfortable with worn furniture in warm colors and the ever-present Quidditch posters covering the walls. It actually reminded Harry of the years they had spent in the Gryffindor common room, the posters in place of tapestries, and he felt more at ease than he'd had since they'd arrived at Hogwarts.

"In the beginning, I felt more like a child-minder than employer but now I actually think I'm going to miss them when school starts next week. They're better than Amancio, who is normally in the kitchen, at any rate. He's a right lazy git most of the time."

Ron was no housekeeper and it took several swishes of his wand to clear the coffee table enough to fit the tray of food, all the while prattling on as if there hadn't been a ten plus year gap in their friendship. The constant dialogue actually soothed Harry, made his shoulders relax and his nervousness ease.

"Watch out for Korbin when you have him in class," Ron was saying. "He's as smart as they come yet he has no control over his magic sometimes. Messes up even the most simple of spells." There was a lull in the one-sided conversation as they sat and the red head eyed him critically. "So you have a daughter," was his blunt lead-in.

Harry looked down at his shoes and then at the food, his appetite fleeting. "Olivia. She's turning eleven in two months, Merlin help me."

Ron looked at him consideringly. "She's a mini version of you, mate. It's uncanny. Does she look anything like her mum?"

Surprised at the subtleness of the probe this time around, Harry didn't feel his usual defensiveness kick in right away. "Sometimes I see Emma in her, mostly when she smiles, but she hasn't smiled much since her mum died." The wall he normally shielded himself in was firmly rebuilt now and it helped him to deflect the sympathetic look Ron sent him. "It's been almost five years now. I'm fine." He waved the other man's concern away before firmly changing the subject and grabbing a plate filled with a pie and peas. "It's really busy out there for a Wednesday night." The pie was quite a soggy affair but warm and delicious.

Ron offered a butterbeer. "Or I can make tea or run downstairs for something stronger." At Harry's gesture that the butterbeer would be fine – his mouth was full – Ron passed it over. "Yeah, we have become the local for the younger set. Security around Diagon Alley has been pretty tight lately and some Aurors have been giving those out late a hard time. Those who don't want to risk being sloshed in a Muggle neighborhood as an alternative, and there aren't many who do want to take that risk after what's been happening lately – you've heard about what's been happening lately, right?"

Harry nodded. It had been all over the papers for the last month. The Ministry was beginning to impose harsher and harsher punishments on those who broke the Muggle Secrecy Act. Just the week before, a man from Belfast was sent to Azkaban for two months for summoning a kitten out of a tree – albeit discreetly – for a small Muggle child. The British wizarding society was in uproar.

"Well, those who don't want to risk being around Muggles at all, magic is a habit deeply embedded, after all, either come here to Hogsmeade or to… uh," Ron looked extremely uncomfortable, his face blossoming into that familiar shade of crimson Harry had seen on him all throughout their school years. "Well, to Potter's Glen. It's where your grave is. It's almost the size of Hogsmeade now."

"They named a town after me," Harry said numbly.

Ron shook his head. "No, not really. They named your burial site which then turned _into _a town. It's pretty nice. Bill and Fleur live there. Oh, speaking of Bill and Fleur, mum wants to make sure you come and visit before school starts. We always have an end of summer family gathering that you and Olivia are invited to. Actually, let me rephrase that. You and Olivia are invited in the nicest way possible while simultaneously twisting your arm around your back and forcing you to go. Mum will hunt you down if you don't show."

Shoving a mountainous forkful of pie into his mouth, Ron grinned. In some ways, Ron hadn't changed much at all. Harry struggled to refrain from rolling his eyes. Ron would eat a hippogryph if given the space and opportunity.

"Is that what you and Hermione fought about?"

Ron looked perplexed. "Oh, you mean earlier today? No. Although if it came up, I'm sure we would've moved onto it."

"What happened to you two?" Harry couldn't help but ask.

Surprised, Ron choked on his butterbeer. "You mean she hasn't told you the whole sordid tale in detail? She hasn't tried to get you to hate me yet?" Harry shook his head and Ron laughed bitterly. "Well, we were married for one. When we were twenty and young and naïve. It was good at first, no, it was bloody wonderful. We lived in number twelve Grimmauld Place only temporarily until we could save up enough to purchase a home of our own and we were happy. You had sent the first photo of Olivia by that time so we knew you were alive and happy somewhere too. It was a good few months.

"And then, Hermione was offered a job at Hogwarts which was so much better than her job at the Ministry so she took it and I was alone for most of the time. Sure, I would visit on weekends when she wasn't too busy with grading or whatever she did, but for the most part, we hardly saw each other. So I took a job helping out Rosmerta on Hogsmeade weekends and busy nights and rented a flat two streets away. It helped but you know how Hermione can be, so focused on doing things perfectly that everything else falls to the wayside. She kept telling me that it was only temporary, that come the following year it would be easier for her and easier for us. But then, one night…" Ron trailed off and he set his empty plate down. "I ballsed it all up, and I know it. Nothing's going to make it better now."

"What did you do?" Harry asked, horrified because he knew already, could see where this was leading, and could see the palpable pain that still clouded Ron's eyes.

"I was closing up the bar late one night… and there was this woman, Magda, who was a local. It was the stupidest decision of my life but somehow we went from talking about school and the war and just plain rubbish and then, then we were kissing and I was lonely and it felt good and… Hermione chose that night of all nights to come visit me. We were divorced within a week of our first year anniversary." He chugged the rest of the bottle down and opened a new one. "And she _still_ hasn't forgiven me, ten years later!" There was defeat in his voice and a little tinge of annoyance.

"The idiocy of the young," Harry offered with a small smile thinking of his own ill choices, past mistakes.

The other man grimaced and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose as he nodded. And then he straightened and the light was back in his eyes and a grin softened the corners of his mouth. "Water under the bridge."

The night had been good for him, Harry reflected as he walked back up through the outer gates of the school. The apprehension that had plagued him for so long about coming home seemed to have loosened its hold on him. It was still there but it was fainter. Everything was going to be all right.

He would survive.

He always did.

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_Seven years ago…_

_Once, when Olivia was three, Emma convinced Harry to see a "psychic" whose ramshackle house lay hidden from view in the woods a few towns over. _

_Well, convinced is a generous word for it. More like teased and bargained until he finally agreed to accompany her while she got __her__ fortune read. At least, he kept telling himself, I don't have to do the dishes for two weeks._

_It wasn't that he didn't believe in psychics, he tried explaining to her on the way to Madame Zillouka's, it was just that if fate wanted you to know what was to come, then the future would find its way to you. Searching it out would only get you vague notions and half-truths._

_Not knowing about the realism of magic nor his intimate dealings with prophecy and fate, she just laughed and turned around to hand Olivia her little stuffed turtle, Boom._

_Madame Zillouka was a wizened old woman, dressed predictably in a loose, almost robe-like dress in jewel tone colors, arms, neck, and fingers encrusted generously in gold and multi-coloured stones. She spoke in a deep, all-knowing voice and Harry turned away briefly so she and Emma wouldn't see his amused smile. Olivia did though and she laughed uproariously as if they shared a secret joke._

_The fortune teller sat them at a small round table that was devoid of all the trappings of divination that Harry had been expecting. There was no crystal ball, no tea leaves or star charts, nor even a deck of tarot cards. All that sat on the table was a single, long-tapered candle, its flame high and steady._

"_I don't deal in specifics," the woman began in a stern yet compassionate voice. "I cannot tell my gift where to go. I only do its bidding and speak of what it reveals."_

_Emma placed her hand in the other woman's and they both watched as the fortune teller's eyes became unfocused, hazy, as she stared down at their entwined grasp._

"_They will never catch you, my child," she whispered. "Whether you run or not, they will never find you. Your daughter will grow into a very solemn but beautiful girl, one who will not be controlled by fear when it tries to take hold. She will be happy. She will be special."_

_As far as fortunes went, Harry thought this one was consistently vague all around yet Emma had tears glistening in her eyes and she fumbled to grip his hand while Olivia squirmed in his lap._

"_That is all the fates will show me but I may learn more from your husband."_

_Emma turned to Harry with bright eyes pleading and he sighed and passed Olivia over to her before holding out his hand._

_Madame Zillouka's hand was cold yet soft and it gripped his hand harder than he expected so he glanced up, surprised, to find that she wasn't focused on their hands like she had with Emma but on his eyes, intently, frighteningly. _

"_You have been cursed," the woman breathed heavily and Emma gasped next to him. "But it is also a gift as you will one day realize." _

_There was a headiness to the room now, an almost heaviness that pressed down on him, made him slightly dizzy. _

"_Do not be afraid to live, my child, for it is your curse to live for the others who gave their lives for you. Do not be afraid of the darkness for it hides nothing you have not already faced. And above all else, do not be afraid of survival because that is what you do, it is who you are. You are the survivor. You will protect and you will shelter and you will fight. And you will endure."_

_The candle on the table guttered and he raised his other hand and shielded the flame. It was hot against his flesh and he flinched as the old woman smiled._

"_It is who you are," she repeated quietly and she let go of him still smiling faintly, proudly._

_The flame steadied, and he took his hand away._

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End file.
